Echoes of Ashener

by David Partelow

  The smile returned somewhat again. “Same old Wyndall.”

  Wyndall offered his friend a drink and a seat. Trennon took the drink but chose to stand. “I assume you would like to get down to business immediately, so go ahead and spill it,” said Wyndall.

  Trennon downed the contents of his glass quickly. “Hawkins base and its supplies have been neutralized. We received five casualties: mostly minor injuries but we lost one.”

  Wyndall sat easily, absorbing the information. “Well I always hate to hear of losses, but I am still relieved that so many came out alive. Though I have always admired your efficiency, I wish you would have waited for support.”

  Trennon shook his head at this. “There was no time. Had we waited any longer those troops and supplies would have made it to Cresul. I couldn’t have that.”

  Wyndall regarded his enhanced friend. “I understand.” He knew that no matter the denial, while his conviction for Vallance was true, this war was still very personal. “What else is on your mind?”

  Putting down his glass, Trennon clasped his metallic hands behind his back. “General Cresul’s forces are amassing again in great numbers. I would say, from a man who has a reason for every move and action, that is enough for us to be on high alert.”

  Wyndall absorbed this as he too drank from his cup. “I have received reports of this increase in numbers, though I do appreciate the confirmation. I will work on proper countermeasures.”

  Trennon pressed on. “Yes, but it is more than that. Every little thing that Nathaniel Cresul does is with a calculated motive. He would not be gathering like this if he wasn’t certain of the outcome. I would like the opportunity to scout ahead and try to figure out his next move.”

  Wyndall rubbed at the mask that obscured his cheek. “Very well, I approve, Trennon. But before you do, I would like you to deliver this for me.” Wyndall reached next to him for a sealed parchment. He handed the document to Trennon. “Duty calls me to Rahn, so I would like you to take this to our forces holed up in the ruins of Bannar. I need someone I can trust to get the job done. And that should not pull you far from your intentions. Report back to me as soon as you can. But for tonight, my orders for you are to rest along with your men.”

  “As ordered then,” Trennon placed his fist on his heart, bowing his head. “I’ll take my leave then.” Trennon turned for the door. Taking a few steps, he stopped in his tracks. Looking at the sealed parchment, he turned back to Axiter’s leader. “Wyndall, I’ve always wanted to know and never asked. Why me?”

  “Why not you?” asked Wyndall confidently.

  Trennon shook his head as he pressed. “I mean, why did you trust me then? Why did you take the chance?”

  Wyndall took his time answering. Before he did, he stood and approached Trennon. “Trennon, I trusted you then because your eyes told me the truth. For justice, for what was right, you made one hell of a choice, forsaking your life and country for one you knew so little of.” Wyndall looked on him again, the way he did five years ago. “And I trust you now because that very same truth is there. It is this truth you prove time and time again. You have no reason to feel the need to prove yourself, Trennon. You are more than a comrade in arms. You are family now and Axiter is your home. Do your best to remember that.”

  Trennon bowed his head slightly, thinking about this before looking again at his friend. “Thank you for your honesty.” Nodding to Wyndall, he turned to leave. He made two steps and stopped again. “Sometimes the only thing that keeps me going is knowing that the choice I made was the right one,” he added before exited the chambers.

  Wyndall of the Jacoi clans watched him go with pride and sadness, wondering if the Thorne native would ever know his worth or make peace with the self-hatred that threatened to claim him.

  -12-

  Always it seemed colder in the Passing Plains, no matter the season. There was little in terms of life here, at least not the kind that savored in announcing its presence to the world. Clouds lingered in this dead or dying stretch of land. It was said to be cursed, with sudden silences and subtle noises frightening off even the bravest of men and women. Many travelers avoided the place entirely when possible. For the truth was, the Passing Plains was a place of fear, a place of death.

  And for at least one, it was exactly the way that he wanted it.

  He was, in fact, male, no matter what the rumors made him out to be: monster, demigod, demon, or wizard, it didn’t matter. He agreed on the first. Monster seemed to suit him well. Whatever the moniker, people would go on fearing him without question. And fear, ever and always, proved to be a valuable ally.

  A howling wind screamed by, bringing with it an exhale of icy chill. It was not felt by him at all as he ate what little food he did possess. He remembered the times he did feel, the times he ate for enjoyment as well as nourishment. Every day those memories became fainter, more distant and more so like a half-forgotten dream, for little mattered anymore. His choice was made long ago the day he became a monster in his own right.

  In truth, it was a human that stood now, brushing himself off, standing up from the rocky enclave that had been his place of rest. What made him different, what made him dangerous, in fact, was his choice to cast aside his humanity. The Passing Plains had become his home. Its northern borders had become his hunting ground. And hunting was what he had grown to do best.

  Overhead, crows pierced the sky with their harsh indifference. Always were they dwellers of these parts. He stared at them with cold, emotionless hunger in his eyes. The crows no longer paid him any mind. He was a part of these lands now and they enjoyed following him. The meals he left in his wake were exquisite.

  In a moment of reverie, he could almost remember the life he had forsaken in his failure. The ragged chest plate he bore along with his dirty armor were testaments of his former self. The clothes beneath them, while still dark, were faded and worn. He now wore a long jacket he acquired in Thorne after one of his assaults. It, very much like his armor now, was coated in rivulets of blood, bearing proof that he was indeed real and a threat to those that stood before him.

  His hair was untidy but crudely managed. He chose to keep it short and spiked, using blood to give it its hold. He wore a light beard as well, trailing in a line down the side of his face and cheek to his chin. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out yet another acquisition from the lands of Thorne, one he had grown to like for their obscurity: sunglasses.

  Covering his eyes with them, he knelt for the rifle he now called his own. It had not taken him long to learn how to use such a thing. At first his spirit had rebelled at such a thought, but as the years passed by, necessity and survival for the sake of vengeance were all that mattered. It was just another tool, and a means to an end; another way to survive a day longer in the hunt.

  Dropping to a knee he lost himself in thoughts. He asked in his heart and mind, knowing full well that no one, not even the gods, would hear him now. He apologized for his failure and screamed at his own inadequacy. He begged for forgiveness for those he had taken, for those he would take, and the fact that he grew to like the void that those instances filled. All he truly wanted though was for those that he could remember, those that he had once loved to be safe.

  Standing again, the scourge of Thorne, the killer on the Passing Plains, the one only known now as The Flood made his way north once more on the trail of his next quarry. They would surely be hunting him by now, no longer as unprepared for his death dealing. Even so, this mattered not at all to the Flood. Let them come. Let them prepare. Let them make their way to him.

  They would always, always find him waiting and ready.

  .

  CHAPTER 3

  The Journey

  Serra Landring slowed her horse’s pace to a gentle trot. It had been a long three hours of off and on hard riding and the break was much needed for her steed. Steadily, Serra traveled north, away from Rahn and to whatever fate awaited her. Serra knew not what she would find or what she
would do when she found it but find it she would.

  Calm, moonlight eased its way down to her, casting shadow off Serra and her dusty white horse. Serra was tired, but she refused to let sleep or the weariness in her bones conquer her yet. She greatly desired to put more distance between her and Rahn before daybreak. Serra didn’t know how far it was or just exactly where she was heading, but she would content herself to follow her feelings and trust the images that Ballor had left her before he passed from the world.

  Serra pulled her soft, thick cloak around her to combat the chilling dampness in the air. She wore a quiet emerald dress beneath the cloak that conformed nicely to her body. Beneath that she had a sleeveless tunic and easy riding pants. The extra layering not only kept her warm but the extra cushioning in the saddle was most welcome. Serra would always wear a dress if allowed, but she would always be practical as well.

  Serra's thoughts raced on faster than her steed, but never was there a second thought. Something about her decision felt entirely right and the feeling was a welcome one. She would follow her heart and her instincts and no matter the outcome, there would be no regret. And if Norryn was out there, she would see him again. That path of thinking only deepened the waters for Serra.

  What would she say to Norryn if she were to find him? Where had he been all this time? Had Norryn thought of her as much as she had thought of him? And did he love her the same way that she loved him? She tried to shake these thoughts from her head. First things first, Serra. You must find Norryn for starters.

  Serra was soon brought from the madness of her thoughts as her horse grew agitated. She grew alert as she observed her surroundings. Serra didn’t know if it were fear or paranoia, but the young woman refused to take chances. There was too much at stake to fail now.

  Serra surveyed the lazy trail with intense scrutiny. Fading footprints revealed the passing of travelers long parted from this area. It seemed in the last couple of miles the trees and foliage had increased in density. There was enough wilderness now to cast several shadows and even more doubt in Serra’s mind. I should have noticed the silence sooner. Something is clearly amiss. Serra cursed the tricks her mind played on her while fear made its way into her heart.

  Shaking the nervousness and chill from her fingers, Serra reached for her small pistol. Jozlyn Corzon, her friend of three years had been kind in giving it to her. Still, gratitude did not sway her unending hope that she would never have to use it. With slow care, her delicate fingers found their way around the handle and on the trigger. For some reason, in that instance, something Jozlyn had once said passed lightly through her mind. “Keep in mind, Serra, that there are fates in this world worse than death." Serra bore the dark thought from her swiftly and urged her horse cautiously onward.

  The uneasy feeling refused leave Serra’s horse. Beneath her, he bellowed his unswerving disapproval. After a few more steps he had refused to carry on any further. Serra took her hand from the reigns and patted the nervous steed on his side. “Easy Ba, easy. What is it, old boy?” She had hoped her voice would sooth the horse, but it had not.

  Serra cast quick glances to her sides, grateful her hair was not obstructing her view. Again, she found nothing but the darkness and silence. Damn it, there’s still nothing to see and Ba is furious. Something is spooking him. Wait. What's that? Serra thought that she had seen something out of the corner of her left eye. Spinning her head quickly around, Serra could have sworn she noticed motion.

  It was the uncertainty that haunted Serra now. She didn’t know if it was someone, something, or just her mind wreaking havoc on her nerves. However, her gut insisted that there was something out there. Serra focused her eyes several feet away, at a point where two trees had almost joined as one. Norryn had always told her to trust her instincts, and so she would try now. Serra listened to her heart and was grateful for its quick reply.

  Her heart said that she had seen a gleam from metal and that she was now in trouble.

  Serra clipped her shoes against Ba’s sides, and the horse wasted no time administering swift acceleration. Gripping tightly, Serra urged Ba on. As an afterthought she turned her head to the side and soon saw figures emerging from the shadows in pursuit. To her surprise, one had been close enough to grab at her leg. Another instant wasted and Serra might have already been in their hands. Now she at least held a chance.

  Up ahead, Serra saw that two soldiers, distinctive in their allegiance to Thorne, come upon the road and in her way. They were readying their rifles to fire. Both guns bore down on Ba with the intention of killing the horse. Serra suddenly remembered that she too was armed. Thankfully, her pistol was still in her grip. With a shaky hand Serra raised it in front of her and fired the four shots her small weapon contained.

  Hot, hungry blue shards screamed through the air before tearing into the path inches away from the two soldiers’ feet. The last two whizzed close by their shoulders and ears. Distracted, the two soldiers dove out of the way instinctively from the approaching blast, taken in surprise by Serra’s small weapon. Serra could hear their curses and impact with the ground just barely over her horse’s thundering hoof beats. Ba sped by them and pressed on.

  Serra kept her head low and her grip tight as she raced away from her pursuers. She asked Ba for more speed, and again the horse found some. Serra glanced up to see that the road was now clear ahead. She could hear orders being shouted behind her but could not make out the words. It mattered not, for Serra’s only focus now was placing distance between her and the soldiers who wished to claim her.

  In her escape, Serra did not hear the soldier that claimed that he had her. She did not see him arm his rifle or notice as he knelt and took aim. All that she could hear where the thrumming of Ba’s swift retreat. And of course, Serra did not hear the shot the soldier fired until it was much too late.

  Suddenly, a violent lurch and shriek shook Serra and filled her ears. Ba screamed in sudden, searing pain as he lost his footing. Serra was thrown forward as Ba met the dirty road. She rolled painfully upon the ground, scratching and bruising herself as she went. For a moment, her view was a blur before reality crept its way back into her vision.

  It was Ba’s agony that brought Serra back to perfect clarity. She felt the immense pain as it poured greatly from her horse. Serra could see that the blast and fall had crippled him. His left hind leg had been shot while his front right had broken as he fell. There would be no more running for Ba. He now looked at Serra with wild, frightened eyes.

  Winded and staggering, Serra made her way to the injured horse. She knew there was nothing that she could do for him, but her heart pleaded for the animal just the same. Wrapping her arms around the horse’s neck she hugged fiercely. “I’m sorry, Ba. I'm so sorry, boy. Forgive me,” she said as she kissed the horse and stood.

  Serra knew her pursuers were coming. She could hear them now in their steady foot falls and urgent shouts. She had to run, for there was no other choice. Serra apologized again as she headed into the darkness of the night. In her heart, she prayed that one of the soldiers after her had the decency to end Ba’s suffering.

  As Serra made some distance away, she heard the clip of a laser blast. Soon Ba’s cries of pain were no more. Serra was relieved, but she also knew that all eyes were on her now. Serra ambled on with what speed she had within her. She was not a hundred percent, nor was she very fast. In her heart, she knew her capture was only a question of time.

  Unfortunately, her capture came even quicker than she expected. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a solider leap at her. He hooked an arm around her waist and brought her to the ground. As they rolled in the grass, Serra fought fiercely, cursing and flailing with everything she had. Finding a stick, she struck the one who tackled her.

  Nevertheless, he had done his job. Serra had been slowed long enough for the others to catch up. She was thrown down again to the ground by the soldiers as she kicked and fought. Serra put up quite a struggle before a rifle butt met her head. Insta
ntly, the fuel and rage left her as she fell limp upon the grass and into unconsciousness.

  The soldier who had stuck her regained his breath as he slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Well that did the trick,” he said as he knelt to examine Serra.

  The other soldiers of the party circled around the unconscious young woman. They waited anxiously as one of their own examined her. “Is she the one?” asked one of the circling soldiers finally.

  The kneeling soldier took Serra’s face in his hands. Taking his right hand, he caressed it across her face and down the front of her dress. “Yeah, she’s the one all right, even more beautiful than they said too. Help me get her up. We need to get back to the horses before sun up.”

  Serra was lifted and placed in the center of nine soldiers from Thorne. She drifted in and out of consciousness to hear bits of their conversation. Serra felt their strong hands and occasionally a touch or caress upon her. She did her best to shut these things out as she figured out what she could possibly do next.

  No solution presented itself, no scenario imagined offered Serra any hope of freedom. She felt foolish in that moment, for that foolishness had cost her the life of her horse and her safety. Now she was thrown to the wolves and uncertainty. It was clear death was not her sentence, but that knowledge only resurfaced her friend Jozlyn’s words within her mind.

  There are fates in this world worse than death.

  Serra knew that she would most certainly be a part of one of those fates. Before giving into unconsciousness again, before delving into the darkness and the unknown, a single thought entered her mind and would not leave. It stretched from her easily, almost uncontrollably. And it was the last thing she remembered for the next several miles of travel.